The Crow: Trail of Tears
by Sar-kaz-m
Summary: my one and only Crow fanfiction. One shot.


The Crow: Trail of Tears.

She had lived only 13 summers.

That last summer of her life, her people kept moving. The white soldiers were all over the land. They were different. The buffalo soldiers were nicer. The white soldiers often shot women and children as well as men. 

The men were away that day. They had gone to meet with the men of other tribes, to see if there was something that could be done to stop the white soldiers. No one knew that the men would never return, having been ambushed by white soldiers.

She had gone to get water from the stream.

She had barely registered the muted thunder of hooves when the screaming began. Quickly, she dropped the waterskins and ran, ran as hard as she could back to the camp.

A company of white soldiers was riding through the camp, shooting everyone. The women tried to gather their children and run, but they were cut down. Older men, too old to go on the warpath, were shot. Young boys, barely able to draw their bows, were shot. Everywhere the smoke and the stink of the white soldier guns floated through the camp. People scattered, but soldiers used them as targets, laughing to each other. Some soldiers jumped down from their horses to rape the women. She screamed as she saw her mother in the hands of a white soldier.

Quickly, she snatched up an abandoned tomahawk from the ground and threw, striking the soldier in the shoulder. He dropped her mother and turned. She grabbed a rock and meant to throw that too when her world was suddenly filled with moving horseflesh. Terrified, she looked up. 

The man on the horse had to be the leader, she knew in an instant. His uniform was the fanciest, and his eyes held the greatest amount of evil she'd ever seen, as he sighted down his arm and very deliberately, and with great enjoyment, shot her in the head.

Dead, her eyes remained open, watching as the soldiers had their way with her mother before killing the poor woman.

Dead, her eyes remained open, watching as the soldiers shot the last few women and children left.

Dead, her eyes remained open, watching as they laughingly castrated the dead old men and looted the lodges for tobacco and anything else the wanted.

Dead, her eyes remained open, and watched them ride away south.

In the Otherworld, her soul cried out. She could not hear the drums of the Otherworld. She could not hear the calls of her people gone before. All she could hear was the thunder of the soldiers' horses and her own wails of injustice against them. She didn't look for Bear. She didn't look for Owl. She didn't look for Wolf.

But Crow came looking for her.

And she did hear the words of Crow. 

Crow promised her justice. Crow promised her vengeance. Crow promised her the strength and the medicine to kill the white soldiers who'd done this great evil. 

And she followed the words of Crow.

Rising, she saw the sun setting. Dying smoke from untended fires around the camp told her that Crow had brought her back to the same day. 

Slowly, with the strength she should not have, she began to gather the bodies of her people. One by one, from the oldest wisest elder to the youngest baby, she carefully corrected their clothing and laid them together in the center of the camp. She took one feather, or one shell, or one bead, from each.

She sang the songs of death for each person.

She tore down the remains of the lodges, using them to build a bier for the dead. She scavenged what grave goods she could, breaking each one carefully, to send the item's spirit into the Otherworld. 

She sang the songs of mourning for each body.

The sun was long abed when she finally began to light the mass bier. Numb, she let the fire rage over her people, sending them together to the Otherworld.

She sang the songs of farewell.

Carefully, she crafted a headdress of the beads and shells and feathers she'd collected. With scavenged paint, she carefully colored everything black. She painted her headdress, her pants, her moccasins, and her dress as black as she could. 

She sang the songs of vengeance.

Finally, as the long night ended and the sun began to cast its glow over the skies, she dressed in her newly black clothing. The embers of the fire flickered as she mixed the ashes of her life into the last of the black paint, and into the tiny bit of white paint. Carefully, she painted her face.

She sang a song of terrible purpose.

At last, her people given to their journeys, her preparations complete, she drew her knife, and cut out her own tongue. Casting it onto the dying fire, she turned and began walking south.

There were no songs left to sing.

Author's note:

There will not be another chapter. The image of a young Sioux girl as The Crow has haunted me for about 3 months now. She has no name – it has no meaning. She didn't want a story, just a beginning.


End file.
